


I Keep Fading Into You (Drowning In Your Darkest Blue)

by scrapbullet



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-15
Updated: 2010-09-15
Packaged: 2017-10-11 20:47:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/116938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrapbullet/pseuds/scrapbullet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The good doctor is, Blackwood surmises, all that he had expected him to be; a man of good standing, of intelligence and of skill.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Keep Fading Into You (Drowning In Your Darkest Blue)

**Author's Note:**

> Themes of a dark, violent and somewhat sexual nature. Contains non-consensual sex between adults. Read with caution.

The good doctor is, Blackwood surmises, all that he had expected him to be; a man of good standing, of intelligence and of skill. Alas, that he – and his comrade, the ingenious Holmes – should fall prey to such a disaster, a bountiful opportunity that Blackwood himself could not resist. Indeed, the skill used to ascertain the whereabouts of the two was inconsequential compared to what he had expended mere days before, to put his plans into motion.

It aids nothing in his crusade, of course, but is merely a game of sorts; a test of endurance for his adversaries, a discreet exercise of the mind to lure two men into a trap and to gain control of them, if only for a brief moment. He had expertly planted a body – a false case, indeed – the body of a scullery maid too impertinent and heuristic as to be missed, and the runes and sigils carved into the flesh of her belly had simply done the rest.

A game, yes, a game to discern who is the better man.

The altar, with its soft crumbling stone is an ideal location, and one which Lord Blackwood has employed before. Here he had sacrificed those beauteous girls, the ones that the pitiful forces of the law shall never find, their souls having fled the rotting mortal flesh and residing in Hell and here is where it shall commence. Even a man such as himself, after all, requires a period of leisure.

Perhaps more than a period...

Tapping manicured nails idly against cold iron Blackwood finally allows himself a respite from his thoughts, for the objects of his attentions reside, now, one chained to the dusty pillar and another; lying upon the altar stained with blood. It is fair to say that Holmes and Watson had taken the bait, following their lead to the logical conclusion and into the waiting arms of his subjects. Indeed, perhaps the intelligent Holmes had figured it all out minutes before the occurrence itself and thought to apprehend him – a more probable outcome, knowing what he does of the man – but there is much to say of brute strength.

"It would be prudent if you were to awaken, my dear Holmes, for I doubt you would want to miss the show."

The form; restrained and shirtless, stirs once before attempting to clear his mouth of blood, ejecting a pool of the hot liquid onto the dusty stone. Holmes, eyes lucid and evidently capable of coherent thought merely appraises Blackwood with a critical air, taking in his surroundings with all of the casual aplomb in which he is merited. His eyes linger, for a brief moment, upon the prone, nude figure restrained and gagged on the altar and scowls. "Indeed," he utters, spitting blood once more onto Blackwood's pristine robes, "you appear to have us at a disadvantage. And chains... how courteous of you, though I must say that your house-warming skills leave plenty to be desired."

"It was not my intention to make you feel... comfortable, Mr Holmes. It is my intention, however, to test you."

"Oh? And what on, old boy? I appear to have left my notes at home."

The soft laughter that passes from treacherous lips is enough to send shivers down the spine of a cowardly civilian, but Holmes is anything but. "I wish to observe your reactions, if you will, to an experiment I shall conduct," Blackwood says, and gloved fingers lash out sharp as a whip to graze Holmes' split lip, forcing the wound apart and revelling in the crimson that wells and is finally expelled from the soft, human tissue. Holmes does not even flinch. "I do so hope you'll enjoy it."

Blackwood is as graceful as a predator in his very progression, and beneath the black hood and robes it is apparent that there is evil afoot. Indeed, from the moment that Blackwood grips the deadly blade Holmes is aware of each muscle and sinew in his body shifting, tensing to accommodate the slow flux of fear building deep within the viscera. For a moment there is silence, and then the blade descends.

The muffled scream is enough to wake the dead.

It is the agony that rips Watson from his tenuous hold on unconsciousness, of cool metal sliding deftly into position and parting the flesh of his shoulder as a skilled butcher might with a prized piece of meat. The cry torn from his lips is also of surprise, and the rivulets follow the scarred channels down the Doctors' chest, bright crimson smearing upon tarnished skin, too pale. Wounds of old and new grace that flesh; soul-deep grief of Afghanistan and villains with dextrous fingers and too many knives.

"You are making a most grievous mistake," Holmes utters in evident anger, and Holmes' mind races; a quick machine that runs through scenarios in even quicker succession. A means of escape, yes, and so intent is his focus upon the gasping Doctor that he allows himself a fleeting moment of weakness. Horror at his friends' predicament is apparent before his features are schooled into an expression of calm curiosity as to the outcome of this charade, blatantly false, but not soon enough for it to be glimpsed by clever eyes.

"For a moment there, dear Holmes, I'd thought you might actually care," Blackwood intones with wicked intent, drawing the flat of the blade across Watson's throat. A bruise is blossoming there, its purple and blue hue's all too ominous in the dim torchlight, "Do you care, Holmes? Perhaps... more than you should, yes?"

The blade itself glitters in the flickering light, though its impact is insignificant alongside the expression on Watsons' face, one of hard stoicism now that the lance of agony has dulled to devilish ache.

"I do not know what you're talking about," Holmes says stiffly, though his eyes are fixed upon Watson, entranced.

"Oh, but I think you do," the blade withdraws, much to Holmes' relief, though the unexpected crack that fills the air is sickening and strikes him deep. In stark contrast Watson makes not a sound as one finger is broken, and then another, chest heaving to fight the inevitable nausea and swoon that must be ailing him.

"I know the dark secrets of your thoughts, Holmes, and your _lust_ is rather distinct. Indeed, it must wound you so to pine as akin to a woman, over such a specimen of _manhood_." Blackwood pauses, removing the black gloves now sopping with congealing blood, allowing them to rest upon Watsons' temples and eyeing Holmes with something akin to unrestrained glee. "But alas, dear Watson does not return your affections." Deft fingers trace vulnerable eyelids, pressing down upon the fragile globules beneath, lips twitching at the slight stutter of breath that passes the lips of his prey. "Or does he?"

Lips grace Watsons' forehead in a mockery of affection, even as those agile fingers trace the sharp, masculine lines of the face, "I must commend you on your choice, of course," Blackwood taunts, and he is as a demon, then, face cast into shadow as he grasps the bloodied, wounded shoulder and twists, eliciting a most satisfying cry of pain.

"Commend me?" Holmes splutters, and all good form is thrown to the wind, "I can assure you that your accusations are, most assuredly, false. Cease and desist." Such words are a front, it is plain, and even Holmes himself is aware that such protestations are useless, not when this desire has been so plainly stripped bare.

But for the honour of his friend, it is to be denied.

Even when those bloodshot eyes shine with knowing.

Each maniacal caress to Watson's bare body is a test, a mighty challenge, and the ministrations do not cease, even as the muted colour of the Doctor's flesh turns flush with humiliation. Wandering hands do trace each scar, press each welt and burgeoning bruise as it festers beneath the surface. It is perverse, the way Blackwoods' hands linger, taunting Holmes by perusing what is not for him to touch, and as every second passes that inconceivable rage intensifies within, burning with the heat of a thousand suns.

Pain is a mistress Watson knows intimately, and deals with in a just manner. But said humiliation is too much, a stain upon more than just the mortal body.

"You deny it, then?"

"..."

Blackwood smirks, self-satisfying, and for a moment Holmes almost believes him to take up the gilded blade once more. But not so, not this time, and the robes part to reveal the Lord to be as nude as the good Doctor is, body adorned and painted with dark sigils. Before Holmes can even utter an exclamation Blackwood has flipped Watson over onto his belly – to which Watson releases a huff of pain through the sodden rag – twisting the chains and pulling at the sore and tender flesh, further exacerbating the Doctor's lame leg. "Then perhaps I shall take him as my own, hmm?"

A film of fury does descend itself upon Holmes' mind, covering the roots of rationality with a heavy fog. It seeps in to his very veins, though it does little to remove the hindrance of the chains circling each wrist, each ankle.

When Blackwood parts Watsons' thighs, it is the straw that broke the camel's back.

It is unlike him, to plummet into such madness as to become fixated upon one thing, one torturous thing and it is this, the soft secretive laughter of a villain and the vain struggles of a friend reduced to nothing more than a faceless whore, face pushed into the cold stone to muffle the absence of sound. It is the infernal smell of blood and sex in the air and the slap of flesh to flesh and skin on skin and alas... Holmes degenerates into a wretched mess, slumped forward, straining against the sight that he wishes only to tear his gaze away from; blessed Watson, stock still and bleeding profusely, maintaining his dignity as Blackwood asserts his control and pants with ecstasy from above, though his pleasure be not carnal, but in the fact that he has them at his mercy.

Their eyes lock and it is the beginning and the end.

***

It is later, when the ire has cooled and Blackwood is behind bars does Holmes dare to think. Irene, bless the woman, had brought herself and the extensive aid of reinforcements that ended the little charade of the villainous Lord, but it hadn't been enough to quell the worry that pools in his gut. In regards to Watson; he is as stoic and calm as ever, though the tremble to his form is apparent to those that look for it.

For the sake of Watson's integrity, there are none who look.

None but Holmes.


End file.
